


A Dinner with Friends

by Humourtalia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humourtalia/pseuds/Humourtalia
Summary: World-renowned artist Feliciano Vargas' new work is his greatest yet - and his most peculiar. It features seven men, none of whom the painter has ever met, but all of whom he claims to know. A chance meeting unites the men, and together they seek their lost memories of each other.





	1. The Artist (Act I)

Feliciano had finally finished his masterpiece, and that was not an exaggeration. As he stood back from the easel, setting down his brush, satisfied at last, he couldn’t help but feel already that this would be hailed as his finest work.

But it was far more important than that. He had needed no models or muse for the image, only a memory – or rather, seven. There were seven men in the painting, seven men he’d never met, but seven faces he knew all the same. He only wished to know them more, and this picture was his attempt at doing so. But it changed nothing.

Feliciano was not disheartened, though. He was never disheartened anyway, but in the context of his apparent amnesia, he had not lost hope. He knew at that moment two things: that these men existed, somewhere, and that this painting was his way to find them. All he had to do was show it to the world. But before he could, he’d need to name it. And he had the perfect one in mind.

_A Dinner with Friends._


	2. The Florist (Act I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan visited people as often as he could, gave them his sunflowers, and considered them his friends, but he didn’t know if that was reciprocated.

The glory of the sun blessed the cobbled streets that Ivan strolled down, just as it had blessed the sunflowers that he grew. With a bouquet of said beautiful blooms in hand, he wandered through the idyllic town in which he lived, pausing only to look out upon the Mediterranean Sea, and to thank the sun for providing him with the very warmth he had come to Southern Italy for.

Eventually, he arrived at the village’s quaint little shop, its jumbled brickwork nestled into the cliff face. When he entered, it was not just the mat by the door that welcomed him.

“Ivan!” Came the delighted call of the sweet old woman behind the counter. “Good to see you!”

“Good day, Agnesia,” he stuttered, a little tentative with his Italian, “I thought you might like some of my harvest.” He held out the sunflowers he’d brought, lighting Agnesia’s face with happiness.

“You are too kind to me!” She gently took his gift and examined the flowers closely, stroking the soft petals with her thumb. “These are lovely,” she murmured, momentarily lost in their beauty before perking up again, “I’ll go find a vase for them!”

Agnesia promptly left, carefully carrying the bouquet away. While she pottered around somewhere in the backroom, Ivan browsed the shop. He knew it mostly by heart now, given his almost-daily visits, so what interested him most was the newsstand. The ever-changing display was his main outlet for news of the world, since he never seemed to take an interest while in the comfort of his own home. He picked up a copy of the first newspaper he saw, and began to flick through. There were terrible things happening, as usual, and good things happening, as usual. More of the same.

He stopped. There was something unusual. Very unusual. His own face, in fact. And six others around it, each one reminding him of the face of a…friend?

“Ivan?”

Ivan whirled around. Agnesia had returned, and was proudly holding a beautiful crystal vase filled with his sunflowers. He beamed at the sight.

“Do you want that?” She asked. Ivan was confused for a moment, but then recalled the newspaper he was clutching.

“Ah, yes, yes,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket and fumbling for his wallet.

“Oh, no, no!” Agnesia shook her head, stopping him. “Take it, the flowers are payment enough.”

Ivan smiled again, and bid her goodbye. She offered to let him stay for lunch, but he made his excuses and left anyway. The second he stepped out of the shop, he unfolded the newspaper and began obsessively staring at it once again. That was his face there on the page, but he had no idea how it got there. He did not remember the painting, he did not remember the other men in it, and he certainly did not remember the dinner it depicted. But he wished he did. It looked like fun. Each of the men, including himself, had a smile on their face—albeit some were more begrudging than others. And yet, even those reluctant smiles were telling of happiness, of enjoyment, and of friendship. Ivan wanted that. Though warm and peaceful, this town was lonely. He visited people as often as he could, gave them his sunflowers, and considered them his friends, but he didn’t know if that was reciprocated.

These men, though, they looked like they were definitely his friends.

But where were they?

His eyes scoured the accompanying article for information. Italy, they were in Italy. He gasped. That’s where he was. He would have to leave right away, to make sure he didn’t keep them waiting. And he’d have to take some sunflowers as well, just in case.


	3. The Mechanic (Act I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig's life is a series of well-ordered events, and that's the way he likes it.

Ludwig, the ‘best mechanic in all of Bavaria’ was, at the present moment, not doing any kind of mechanics. He was, however, in Bavaria, wandering through a lush green field with the sunset shining over his shoulder, bathing all before him in a warm hue. His three dogs – Blackie, Berlitz, and Aster – darted about his feet, yapping occasionally. He threw a stick for them, they collected it, and they brought it back. He threw it again, they collected it again, and they brought it back again. His life was a series of well-ordered events, and that was the way he liked it. Monotony, he believed, was an insulting term for ‘structure’. 

After arriving home at the usual time, Ludwig fed his dogs, and then immediately set about feeding himself. Though not the best cook in the world, he was competent enough to keep himself alive. Today’s meal contained sausages and vegetables gifted to Ludwig by a local farmer; the man had been ever so grateful after Ludwig managed to get his presumed-dead tractor working again.

To eat, Ludwig headed to his sofa and sat in front of the television. His dogs gathered around, staring up at him in sadness. Not only were they jealous of his tasty-looking dinner, but also the fact that it got to sit on his lap instead of them. He gave them a sympathetic pat on the head as he reached for the remote, and turned the TV on.

The channel it tuned to was the one he’d left it on in the morning before getting to work: the news. The reporter on the screen finished their current story, and passed back to the studio. The newscaster thanked them, and then quickly moved on.

“Today, in an act that has shocked the art world,” she spoke, “Feliciano Vargas has refused to sell his latest painting for an offer of over one million Euro. The artist, known for giving the proceeds from his paintings to charity, claimed that this piece—which has immediately been hailed as his greatest work yet—is not for sale.”

An image of the painting appeared on screen. Upon seeing it, Ludwig lurched forward in disbelief, the force of the motion catapulting his dinner onto the floor. His dogs rejoiced, lapping up the spilt meal, not noticing the shock on their master’s face.

Though the newsreader described briefly each of the men, Ludwig was concerned with only one—himself. Utterly confused, he stared unblinkingly at the screen, unsure whether he was actually seeing what he thought he was seeing. It was like looking into a mirror—a very renaissance mirror, to be fair, but a mirror all the same.

The painting disappeared. The story had finished. The trance was finally broken. As he sat back in his seat, Ludwig gazed around his living room, as if to ground himself in reality. His eyes eventually came to rest on the mess in front of him, and his dogs’ efforts to clean it up. Ludwig leapt into action, ordering his dogs to stay away as he scraped the last morsels of his meal back onto the luckily-intact plate. He threw the ruined food away in the kitchen, and then returned with a cloth to clean up the stains it had left. While he scrubbed, his eyes wandered back to the TV screen, as if the painting would still be displayed upon it. He wanted to see it again; he needed to. But this time, it had to be in person.


	4. The Lover (Act I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stars are indeed beautiful, but luxurious parties are much more suited to Francis Bonnefoy’s tastes.

Leaning against the balustrade of the balcony he stood on, Francis Bonnefoy looked out upon the city below. Night had swept over Paris, covering it in a blanket of stars. No lights shined brighter than that of the Eiffel Tower, however. Francis gazed at it wistfully, occasionally sipping from the glass of wine he held.

“What are you doing out here?”

Francis turned to see J, his friend, walk out onto the balcony.

“Enjoying the night-time.” He stepped forward, gesturing with his glass. “We spend our entire lives beneath the stars, and only half of that time do they show to us their beauty, yet we sleep it all away. They are far too glorious to be ignored so callously. If the stars do not sleep, why should I?”

J was unimpressed by his rhetoric. “Are you finished?” She queried.

“Yes, why?”

“Hugo is gone.”

Francis breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he exclaimed dramatically, “it’s freezing out here!”

Laughing, J opened the door to her apartment, and Francis hurried inside. Stars were indeed beautiful, but the luxurious party within was much more suited to his tastes. He regained his suave demeanour the second he entered it, as if transformed by the mere presence of expensive furnishings and Paris’ social elite.

“So, what have you done now?” J asked with a smirk, following Francis as he headed to the bar.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered after ordering another glass of wine.

“I mean,” J whispered, “what did you do to poor Hugo?”

“I didn’t do it to him—” Francis paused to thank the bartender as he was handed his drink—“I did it to his girlfriend. Or rather, _with_.”

“Oh, Francis…” J pretended to sound disappointed in him, but secretly, she loved his misadventures. As did most of Paris’ socialites.

“She told me she was single.”

“She is now.”

“Good for Hugo,” Francis smiled, “I had a feeling she was cheating on him.”

J stifled a laugh. “Please tell me you haven’t broken any more hearts, lately.”

Francis didn’t reply; he was too busy glancing around the room, looking at all the art. “Why are none of these paintings of me?” He questioned.

“Don’t change the subject!”

“No, I am serious. This room needs more of me.”

J smiled smugly. “Do you want me to make some kind of comment?”

“What I want is you to buy more paintings of me.”

“Then you won’t be getting what you want.” J pulled her phone out of her purse and started to type something into the browser. “Although I do have my eye on this,” she said, handing Francis the phone, “but it’s apparently not for sale.”

Francis gasped.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” J muttered. She began describing the many reasons why she wanted the masterpiece, but Francis was too stunned to listen. The art had him caught in a trance, and for a very good reason…

“Is this a joke?” He asked J, bewildered. “Did you show me this on purpose?”

“What do you mean?”

“That…that looks like me! I don’t know who these other people are, but that is me!”

“Hm,” J glanced at the painting again, “I suppose it does.”

“Suppose!?” Francis sputtered. “That is me, clearly!”

“How would that be possible, Francis?”

“I don’t know, but perhaps…” He tapped the image’s source, a news story, and scrolled down to find any information that could help him. There was nothing, however, beyond a description of the painting, a brief biography of the artist, and the fact that it wasn’t for sale. Confused and hopeless, Francis sat down and took a large sip of wine.

“You know,” J said, removing her phone from his limp grasp, “I was planning to go and see it tomorrow…maybe persuade the artist to rethink his position. The flight is already booked.”

Francis glanced up at her, intrigued.

“If you’re still this upset about it in the morning,” J smiled, “why don’t you go instead?”


	5. The Editor (Act I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur wasn’t a terribly social person, and liked time spent on his own—but anyone would feel lonely living by themselves in his manor house.

As a foster parent, the days when Arthur awoke to a silent house were, at the very least, confusing, and at the very most, unsettling. Today was such a day. Arthur was between charges, having requested a particularly long respite to be able to get some crucial work done on the manuscripts he was currently editing. However, he had quickly come to realise he’d made a terrible mistake. Without impartial critics to persistently ask ‘why’ and point out the parts they didn’t like, Arthur found that editing was strangely harder than usual. That was why, after getting himself dressed and ready for the day, Arthur did not immediately head to his study, but instead contented himself with humming the national anthem as he brewed a cup of tea in the kitchen.

After the tea was ready, he set about making himself breakfast, a task which he had much improved upon in recent months. Between the duty of having to prepare food for others and the amount of cooking shows he watched, Arthur had found bettering himself in the kitchen unavoidable. He was still nowhere near the standards of the Michelin-starred magicians on TV, but at least the smoke alarm had gone over thirty days without incident.

He sat down at the dinner table with his meal, as usual, and tried to ignore the fact that there was no one else around it. Admittedly, Arthur wasn’t a terribly social person, and liked time spent on his own—but anyone would feel lonely living by themselves in his manor house. He’d come to inhabit the Georgian country home after quitting a boring, strenuous job in London. Having a passion for literature and a degree in the subject had landed him his editing job, which was fortunately flexible enough to allow him to foster. It seemed he’d created the perfect life.

Once he’d finished eating, Arthur headed for the living room, and for the oddly comfy antique sofa within. When settled upon it, he turned the TV on and watched the news. The presenters greeted their audience, and he returned the gesture, as if they could hear. They then began to briefly reel off the day’s top stories, images accompanying each. One picture in particular stood out to Arthur. It was a painting, by some artist in Italy he’d never met, that somehow depicted his own self in the midst of a dinner at which he’d never been. Even for him, that was strange. But, before Arthur could take his analysis of the painting any further, it vanished.

“What!?” He squawked. “No, no, no, no, no! Go back, go back!”

Unaware of Arthur’s commands, one of the newsreaders started the broadcast proper with a different story. “First,” she spoke, “let’s hear from our political correspondent currently at Westminster.”

“What? No!” Arthur threw his hands up in frustration. “I don’t care about that, show me the painting!”

The reporter prattled on.

“For God’s sake, the painting!” Arthur chanted. “The painting! The painting!”

After a few agonisingly long minutes, giving Arthur plenty of time to doubt what he saw, the presenters moved on. The painting appeared on screen once again, and Arthur cheered its return.

But when he saw that he was right, that he was in the piece after all, Arthur didn’t know how to feel. He thought he should be relieved that he wasn’t going mad, but he found himself left only with questions, and the story behind the painting seemed to lack any answers.

It was then that he realised what he could do with his respite. No working on manuscripts, no pining for parental purpose—he was going to Italy, he was going to see for himself the painting, and he was going to figure out why in God’s name he was in it.


	6. The Traveller (Act I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiku hadn’t really planned the next stop on his travels—he’d been waiting for an opportunity to reveal itself.

Kiku rose that morning, as he did every morning, from a bed that was not his own. This bed in particular belonged to a kind Canadian couple, who’d offered him their spare room last night after meeting him in a local restaurant, and bonding over their mutual fondness for globetrotting. Kiku was, coincidentally, currently in the middle of a round-the-world trip, roaming from country to country, staying at hostels and hotels, and often relying on the kindness of strangers, as he had last night. And though he’d started with a plan, Kiku had become lost in the adventure, and was now—quite unusually for him—going with the flow.

He headed downstairs not knowing what would await him, and thus was pleasantly surprised. His two hosts, Bridget and Bertie, were already awake and cooking a delicious-smelling breakfast.

“Good morning! Pancakes?” Bridget queried as Kiku entered the kitchen. “It’s a little typical, but isn’t that what you explore the world for, eh? To experience other people’s norms?”

Bertie laughed. “She’s only saying that because she can’t cook anything else.”

“I can! I just cook pancakes the best!”

“Your pancakes sound delicious,” Kiku said, sitting next to Bertie at the breakfast bar, “thank you.”

“No problem!” Bridget smiled; there was a hint of victory in her grin that made Bertie roll her eyes. “Can’t travel the world on an empty stomach, can you?”

“Not at all,” Kiku nodded.

“Speaking of which,” Bertie interjected, “where do you think you’ll be travelling to next?”

“Hm…” Kiku paused to think. He hadn’t really planned his next stop, as he’d been waiting for an opportunity to reveal itself, like they had done so far on his journey. “I’m not sure.”

Bridget looked concerned as she served him pancakes. “Maybe we can recommend somewhere? We’ve seen a lot of amazing places!”

“That would be excellent, thank you.”

As Kiku tucked into his breakfast, Bridget and Bertie recounted their favourite travel destinations. They’d been to an incredible amount of places, and made each and every one sound wonderful. In fact, their shining recommendations made it even harder to decide on exactly where to head next. Nevertheless, Kiku thanked them for the suggestions as he finished his pancakes, and offered to clean up breakfast himself. His hosts tried to stop him, but he insisted, and so they left him to tidy, wandering off to get ready for the day ahead.

Kiku efficiently cleaned the used plates and cutlery, but, while wiping down the breakfast bar, became distracted by the newspaper that sat upon it. He’d noticed the name of his favourite artist on the cover, advertising a story within. Curious, he sat down, opened it to the right page, and found the article.

His mouth fell open. It was not the out-of-character behaviour of Feliciano Vargas that surprised him, nor the beauty of the magnificent masterpiece he had created—but the fact that Kiku himself was in it.

“Hey,” Bertie said, re-entering the room, “I know it’s been five minutes, but had any thoughts on where you’re going next?”

“What do you think of Italy?” Kiku asked, barely taking his eyes off the newspaper as he spoke.

“Italy’s amazing, any time of year.” Bertie smiled. “Great stepping stone to the rest of Europe, too. Is that where you’re headed?”

“Yes,” Kiku nodded. He’d always wanted to see a Vargas work in person. Now that he was in one of them, it seemed like a good time to fulfil that dream.


	7. The Soldier (Act I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any observer would have deemed Alfred brain-dead, but for him, this was living–comfortable, easy, and relaxing.

“I am a goddamned genius,” Alfred grinned, pouring cereal into a bowl. It was six o’clock, and rays of sunset streamed through his kitchen window, turning amber the milk he splashed across his ‘dinner’.

After returning from duty, Alfred had thought that there might be some slim chance that he would stick to the regimen the superior officers had drilled into him. But, as probability goes, the far greater likelihood that he’d return to his old ways won out. That naturally meant he played video games every half hour to dull the blade of boredom, watched TV until the early morning, and, of course, ate sugary cereals for his evening meal.

He was thankful for it, though. He didn’t want to lose himself through this life he’d chosen; it had made him realise that he quite liked who he was, and that realisation had brought about the fear he might change beyond recognition. But he hadn’t. He was still here, and still Alfred.

The TV in his tiny living room was already on and blaring some low-brow reality show when he entered. Of course, this state of affairs was quite purposeful, and well-suited to Alfred’s tastes. He flopped down on his sofa, taking a slouched position any other person would have avoided while eating, and ate. He became absorbed in some kind of trance while he lay there, mesmerised by the screen. Each spoonful of cereal was dumped into his mouth robotically, each slow chew a carbon copy of the last. Any observer would have deemed Alfred brain-dead, but for him, this was living. Comfortable, easy, relaxing: having experienced times without those qualities made him embrace them now to the extreme.

At the end of his program and his meal, Alfred got up to take his empty bowl to the kitchen. He remained in there for the duration of the commercials, and returned just as the news took over his TV. If there was one thing that had changed about Alfred, it was that he started to watch the news. He’d kept up with current events before, of course, but he didn’t really sit down and concentrate upon them. He only heard, never listened. And today, more than any other, he was glad to have changed in that regard.

As the time rolled on, and the span of his attention drew to a close, something appeared that threw it and his eyes wide open again. It was a painting, whose story in the last few hours had become more dramatic than any of his programs. It had been unveiled only this morning, yet had already been praised by critics, sought after by dealers, and protected by its creator. The strangest thing of all, though, was not its story, but its subjects—of whom Alfred was one.

“What the hell? That’s…that’s...” Alfred stared intensely at the television. “That’s…so cool!”

He leapt off the sofa and pressed his face up against the screen.

“I’m in a painting! An actual painting in a gallery! Dude, that’s like a celebrity!” He turned away from the TV, beginning to think out loud. “I have to go see this thing, right? That’s what you do when you’re in painting?”

He whirled back round to look at the screen. “Oh, whatever, man!” He grinned. “This is so cool, I gotta see it!”


	8. The Inventor (Act I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Yao, being the rich and important CEO of his own company was fun, but it was also frustratingly stressful.

There’s nothing like a successful meeting with your development team to get you in the mood for lunch—at least that’s how Yao saw it, heading back to his office after attending such a meeting. Once inside, he sat at his desk and took in the delicious smell of the freshly-cooked meal that awaited him. He’d told everyone that he wanted to eat by himself today because he had important things to mull over. The truth was, he just wanted some time alone. Being the rich and important CEO of his own company was fun, but it was also frustratingly stressful. Getting five minutes’ peace to eat and maybe browse the internet a little was all he could hope for.

Today, as he scrolled through his favourite sites, looking for some brief entertainment, he found some news story about a painting in Italy. Yao didn’t really understand why it was news, but he was still intrigued by the thumbnail image that led to the article. So he clicked it. And his mouth fell open. 

As the picture of the painting loaded, it became all the more clear that he was in it. “What? Why is that me!?” He questioned angrily. “I should sue!”

But, as his initial shock subsided, his offence was taken with it, and only a sympathetic curiosity was left. “Why have you painted me?” He softly asked the article, leaning into the screen as if it might reveal more. He could only know all it had told him, though. The painting, A Dinner with Friends, (which depicted exactly that) had been revealed yesterday. The artist, Feliciano Vargas, though usually keen to sell his works to raise money for charity, had refused to do so, despite some offers going into the millions. And that gave Yao an idea. If he’d created something as incredible as Vargas’ masterpiece, he wouldn’t sell it all that quickly either. Perhaps there was a price, and the others just hadn’t found it yet. But that was the fun part of being a rich and important CEO—you could find people’s prices with ease.

Yao called for his assistant, and she entered the room immediately. “CEO Wang,” she greeted, “are you done with your meal?”

“Yes,” he told her. She cleared away his empty plates, about to leave when he spoke again: “and I have something I need you to do.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to buy something for me.”

“Oh, have you found more Hello Kitty memorabilia for your collection? Which auction site is it this time?” She prepared to take note of what he wanted.

“It’s not Hello Kitty!” Yao squawked.

“Oh! I am sorry!”

“It’s fine, just get me this.” He turned his monitor around, ducking behind it to hide his slight embarrassment. The assistant stepped forward and peered at the screen.

“Art?”

“Yes, I want it.”

“Right.” She began to scribble down the painting’s name, but stopped and narrowed her eyes at the article beneath. “It says here it’s not for sale?”

“Not yet, but I’m going to make a bigger offer than anyone else has.”

“How much will that be?”

“Whatever it takes.” Yao waved his hand, but then looked her in the eye. “Don’t bankrupt me, though.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded, though her voice became tinged with worry. “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course!”

“But you’ve only seen this painting in a picture online,” she told him, “shouldn’t you do more research before buying it?”

“I buy things this way all the time.”

“Yes, sir, but this is different. You’re spending a _lot_ more money.”

Yao sat back in his chair. The sudden grip of excitement had gotten the better of him. “You’re right,” he mused. “How fast can you organise a trip to Italy?”

“I can have your plane prepared for departure tonight.”

“Good. Do it.” Yao instructed. His assistant agreed, and began to leave, but he stopped her. “Wait, there’s one more thing. You see these people in the painting?” He indicated the others on the screen.

“Yes, sir?”

“Find out who they are.”

“Yes, sir.”


End file.
